To Fool an Audience
by Stre
Summary: AU. Maka Albarn is a "playwright" that aspires towards musical theatre, but she is limited by the fact that she cannot write music.  She must therefore team up with a partner that will help her attain her goal.
1. Scene 1

**Disclaimer**: All rights go to their respective owners, and I don't claim anything aside for my love for SoMa. ^_^

**To Fool an Audience**

_by. Stré_

* * *

><p><strong>Scene I<strong>

_[at her old house, at the coffee shop]_

* * *

><p>She ran her index finger along the surface of the shelf, and was surprised to see that no dust had collected on her skin. Apparently someone still kept this house clean, despite it being uninhabited for years. It felt like a well-preserved memory, as if trapped in time, looking exactly the way she had always remembered it to be. There was however a missing element: the life and warmth it once held was long gone like the habitants of this house.<p>

She continued to observe the heavy dark-oak bookcase. It still stood by that bay window framed with cream-coloured drapes, appearing as mature as an old tree, while carrying those tomes of knowledge that her mother had collected throughout her own youth. She grazed some of their spines, chuckling softly at the memory of her child-self that was deeply intimidated by these bodies of wisdom. Back then, she did not expect that they would quickly become dear friends that continued to inspire her till this day. She owned copies of them in her own apartment faraway from this nostalgic place.

Her gaze then shifted to the adjacent wall reflecting hues of soft sage green that her father apparently chose because it reminded him of his baby girl's eyes. She shuddered at that thought: Papa's affection was just too much at times. Colour aside, the wall also revealed another portfolio of memories.

There were family photos. Even after the divorce, those images of the happy days were left intact, still asserting their space on that wall. She did not care much about these photographs. While she no longer held any resent towards her parents, more notably towards her father with his philandering ways, she simply felt apathetic towards these youthful smiling faces. Over the years, she had learned to leave the past behind because bearing grudges never lead to anything good, but in result, she sometimes felt indifferent towards her own memories, as if they no longer held any deep attachment or relevance to her current life.

Her eyes then hovered to the frames further left to the photos, paying equal attention to the built-in shelves located above. These were the artefacts she wanted to see: her mother's awards. They were abundant and some were grand, from modest contest prizes to international awards. Claiming praise from the many categories of writing—novels to plays, journalism to thesis writing—her mother simply accomplished it all.

And then she saw it, the most prestigious award of them all, the one that gave birth to her aspirations yet haunted her throughout the years. It sat somewhat unceremoniously, lumped next to various other prizes of lesser grandeur, but it seemed to emit its own aura, and where the family photographs did not faze her spirit, this item certainly left her soul burning with passion. _The __Shinigami __Choice_.

Her mother had earned it, not with one of her signature novels, but with a play that she had written and staged. Theatre had always been an interest of hers, and directing had come naturally with her outgoing yet authoritative personality. At age twenty-four, her mother possessed great skills and a knack at drawing out other people's potential. She trained her husband as the lead, and as swift as a scythe swiping tendered crops, they reaped the award that same year.

Her father. Her _stupid_ Papa. She remembered that play quite clearly because it had been the first time she ever saw him in action. It was complex so her six-year old brain could not possibly understand every minute detail, but she nevertheless sensed its powerful impact. She continued to reminisce that moment, and all of a sudden, she is transported back in time, sitting on that red velvet plush chair with her feet dangling because she is too little to touch the ground. She watches her father perform, but he does not appear like the doting parent that she is all too familiar with. The stage is bright, but not because of the strong lights that accentuate their movements. It blinds her because the girl could see orbs shining from each actor, their glory and potential exposed to the eyes of this child. Her papa shined the brightest. Her mind returns to the present.

"The Shinigami Choice," she mumbled to herself. Her heart yearned for it since that fateful day.

She was then reminded of the great pride she held as a child, how she would always boast to the other kids about her Mama's greatness, particularly how her useless Papa was transformed into a famous actor by her mother's hands. She had always wanted to follow in her footsteps, maybe even surpass her glory, but life never came easy even when she was so well connected. She could feel herself shrink, completely belittled as she surveyed these symbols of her mother's prestige.

The girl retreated from the room, and headed upstairs to her old bedroom.

Just like the living room, it remained faithful to her memories. Or at least, that was her original thought _before_ closely inspecting the contents that now hung on her pale-yellow walls. _This __was __definitely __Papa__'__s __doing._

"Maka Albarn, first prize winner of the DWMA literature contest," she read aloud, amused at the fact that her father had even framed all of the newspapers articles that featured his precious little angel.

She had to admit, she did manage to accumulate a decent amount of success in her mere twenty-two years of age, and this shrine her father had built was the proof of her hard work. Writing did not come easy in the beginning, but Maka was extremely perseverant and refused to admit defeat. Indeed she had the right influence and guidance from her mother, but she also carried certain qualities that would support her efforts.

First and foremost, she had an excellent memory when it came to reading. She could memorize information with a single glance over the page which she then stored in neatly-organised compartments in her brain. Unfortunately, the information _in-between _the lines was often lost or never perceived at all. She remembered her mother being rather disappointed when she failed at an interpretative text assignment because she could not see beyond the concrete words—she was only seven, yet it still stung her pride till this day.

But Maka was far from stupid and even further from lazy: she decided to study everything, revving her memorization motor to its maximum capacity. If there were words that others could see but she could not, then she would simply have to pretend that she could see them too. Moreover, she would claim that she saw even _better_ words than they could. She devised a method.

Collecting data was her specialty, so she gathered lots of information on various topics, paying attention to words and their associations, while memorizing historical facts to better understand context. She expanded her vocabulary, mastering its usage, and even familiarized herself with their etymology. She also studied her public by collecting hands-on empirical data through field research. Since she wrote in English, she would first cater to this population, observing the trends in its literature to figure out the bounds for her potential award-winning ideas.

An idea was never really new or unique—if it was, it would not be understood by the public and would only earn respect in later years. She worked with the now, what was appreciated in the present, but she always added that extra layer of depth that was meticulously conceived from her rigorous research. She took risks, hypotheses as she liked to call them, but always had the data to justify her decisions. She turned literature into a science.

…_Exquisite originality and wit…_

…_the feelings flow…_

…_Candid shot at her inner emotions…_

… _she is an artist…_

… _True art..._

These newspaper clippings were hilarious, Maka thought to herself. She could never fool her mother, but she certainly fooled her public because from what she had read about artists, she would never label herself as one. She would however use this reputation to her advantage.

She took one last look at her old bedroom.

Walls plastered with her success as a writer, a so-called artist in the public's eye— this was going to be her foundation for what she really wanted to do because indeed, the girl had an ambition that transcended the mere goal of winning awards. The Shinigami Choice was important since it was the start of her passion, but it was by no means the end. She cracked a smile at her renewed motivation.

* * *

><p>"OI! MAKA!"<p>

The girl in question did not bother to raise her chin, preferring to keep her eyes locked on the notepad she was scrutinizing. There was no point in looking up because she knew that _noise_, that very distinguishable annoyingly distractive LOUD voice. She could hear his equally obnoxious footsteps draw closer to the table she was sitting at, the booth in the corner where she had the best view of all the other tables in this coffee shop. It was her favourite spot and she often got a lot of work done, in exception to the times where her bubbling idiot blue-haired childhood friend would drop a visit to halt her productivity, just like today.

"HEY!" he hollered, taking a seat across from her. "I'M TALKIN', YA KNOW!"

She finally averted her gaze from her work and gave him a hard stare.

"BlackStar. I'm two feet away from you, lower that damn voice of yours! It's giving me a headache already," she responded with irritation, massaging her temples as if to emphasize her words.

"Geez, someone sounds pissy. If you greeted me in the first place, I wouldn't have had to yell ya know," he said in a slightly quieter tone. Only slightly.

"Whatever. I'm trying to concentrate. Can't you see I'm working?" Her irritation was quickly turning into rage for some inexplicable reason. BlackStar had not even done anything stupid, yet.

"Whoa~ what bit you in the ass? You're usually not this pissed off when I visit."

"I'm not angry." Her reply was rather unconvincing, whatwith the deep frown she wore.

"Sure…" he answered with scepticism, rolling his eyes as she huffed another quiet I'm-not-angry. "Well, I'm gonna order a coffee, so I'll let you chill for a bit. When I get back, you better be ready cuz I have some AWESOME news." His grin reached his ears and he made his way towards the counter.

BlackStar was right. She was unusually angry and he really was not at fault. The source of her frustration was no doubt the piece of writing she was working on. Three weeks ago, when she visited her old house, her motivation had skyrocketed and the confidence had filled her being, but that fire had now died down and she was only left with the ashes of dejection. This task was by no means an easy one and as she meticulously planned her preliminary resource material, she realised that it _could_ even be impossible. This script had to be perfect, but that was the simple part since words were her forte. It was the second step that she dreaded.

Before that loud-mouth had entered the coffee shop, Maka had to admit that she was not actually writing. She was instead thinking about her motives towards the script and her career as a whole. Her anger must have been set off by his mere presence because he represented the antithesis of introspection. BlackStar was obnoxious but he certainly had talent, even though she would never admit it to him upfront. With a voice that loud and an ego that big, he was made for the stage. His motives were simple, he was certainly in it for the fame, but Maka knew that he also treasured his work deeply. But still, he never thought too deeply into things, like the way he was currently cutting in line because he failed to notice that the queue started on the opposite end.

They say that an actor is an artist, and Maka wondered whether BlackStar ever considered this label. He would probably say yes, and not think twice about the weight of that title. She, on the other hand, had read way too much about the on-going debates and elusive definitions of that three letter word. Art. She read everything about it, yet she could never grasp its full essence, but she surprisingly did not let it bother her because during her research on this subject, she realised something more important.

Through reading and observation she discovered that it was a way to touch people, and a very effective one at that. She never identified with "art"—the aesthetics were too trivial for her taste—but there were certainly things that she believed in and that she wanted to express. She hated loneliness and despair. She believed in courage and action. She wanted to fight against war, against the vices of society, but she could not do it alone. A single person could not change the world, but a revolution always started with an idea, and the arts were a key player since this medium could be easily consumed by the masses. History had revealed this trend one too many times, and she would also use it as a tool, her weapon, to convey her humanitarian values and battle against injustice.

"The clerk recognized me, I know that's obvious, but she gave me a free cookie!" BlackStar announced with glee. Much to Maka's surprise, he handed her the extra treat. "I'm only giving it to you because I hate raisins."

The frown she had been wearing had eased, and her once annoyed expression was replaced by a gentle smile. In the eighteen years that she knew BlackStar, there was never any type of food that he refused to eat. Raisins were certainly not an exception.

"So what's the awesome news that you so desperately want to tell me?" she asked with only mild curiosity, more interested by the delicious oatmeal-raisin cookie that was given to her. BlackStar's eyes lit up. She could have sworn she saw stars replace his pupils.

"I GOT THE PART!" he announced in his notoriously loud voice, grabbing the attention of everyone in that café. Maka did not bother to tell him to quiet down. His excitement was justified.

"But of course, that's quite _obvious_ cuz they'd never turn down a god like me! The REAL amazing news is that my partner is totally hot—her rack's like HUGE!" He was so genuinely happy about this "news" that Maka refrained from hitting him or lecturing him about superficiality.

"That's great news, BlackStar. I'm happy for you," she responded simply, nibbling on a piece of her cookie.

"It's really gonna be great! The play's really interesting too. My partner doesn't have that many lines, which is perfect because all the attention will be on my voice anyways and she's actually kindda quiet, but she was mainly casted for her amazing movements—she's apparently some goddess of dance or martial arts or something. Oh, and she's Japanese like us!"

Maka replied him with a smile. She knew that BlackStar would start ranting about his role like he would always do when he got a new part, or in the occasions that he was not selected, he would bitch about how the production sucked anyways and that he was glad that he wasn't chosen. This time, his rant was rather entertaining because the play he spoke of did sound brilliant. It gave her a little more motivation since she was competitive by nature.

"And guess who's directing? THE DOC! STEIN!" he bellowed proudly, startling a passerby that nearly spilled their mug of coffee onto themselves. Maka was left impressed, and her competitive spirit definitely flared. Stein was a great writer and earned the title of doctor by completing not only one PhD, but three of them. In his teenage years, he had an interest in theatre which he introduced to her Papa who became somewhat of a test subject—Stein always had wacky ideas, and he would "ask" her father to perform them.

"Seriously? But I thought he didn't stage plays anymore! I heard that he didn't want to deal with real people," she responded with a sceptical look. The last she had heard was that he was completely devoted to puppetry. She remembered her Papa whining about how creepy the doc's studio had become, filled with dissected doll parts and strange lab tools.

"Well, I did say that my partner is some dance goddess. And I'm a god, so ya know, we aren't just _any_ real people."

"Oh whatever."

BlackStar simply grinned at her. He then attempted to grab her notebook, but her reflexes were fast enough to avoid his grasp. She clutched it to her chest.

"So what are you writing?" he genuinely wondered.

"A play."

"What? Really? I better be the lead!" He was serious.

"No way," she responded with equal seriousness. "And it's going to be a musical."

"I can sing! Don't underestimate the talent of a god! But hang on, a musical?" He gave her an incredulous look. "But you're practically tone deaf!"

He was right. She may be good at a lot of things, but music was not one of them. She always knew that she was a hopeless case when it came to this cursed discipline, but she would not let it limit her. Musical theatre was a must. She may not understand the intricacies of a score, but she could still feel its rhythm and she knew about its power. Through her research, she realised that mixing the many disciplines of the arts allowed more flexibility of connecting with different types of people, which therefore broadened her audience. Not everyone could relate to words alone, and music is said to speak straight from the soul, so utilizing this tool was a good investment.

In addition to these logical reasons, Maka also noticed that when she watched a musical, the actors simply shone more brightly. She would see those blue orbs ablaze in their chest, and she simply knew that musical theatre would win her that award.

Nevertheless, creating music for her play was daunting and felt nearly impossible. This had been the infamous "second part" that she dreaded.

"Yes, BlackStar. You don't need to remind me of my shortcomings." She scowled. "I'll have you know that I admit that I have no talent, but I'm not going to let it stop me. I need to find a partner."

"I can help!"

"No, it's fine. But thanks for your concern," she curtly replied. The last time she accepted BlackStar's help, she ended up with a black eye and an overprotective father locking her in her room for a week. Don't even ask what her original request was; she did not want the memory to resurface.

"No seriously, I know someone good!" he reassured. "He always talks about jazz!"

It really looked like BlackStar was genuinely trying to help, and Maka took a risk and inquired further.

"So what instruments does he play?"

"I dunno. Never actually heard him," he admitted nonchalantly, as if this was an acceptable answer.

"BLACKSTAR! Be serious! How can you say someone is good when you haven't even heard them? And here I thought that I'd actually take your help this time…" She was a little disappointed because for a second, she actually had hope.

"I _am_ serious! I never heard him _live_, but I heard a recording of some music he wrote," he lied, grateful of the acting skills he surprisingly possessed. "The music had a lot of sax. And there was bass too. So I don't know which one he plays, okay?"

"Okay," she responded, oblivious to his lie. "I guess meeting him won't hurt."

"Great! I'll get him to come to Kidd's party. You're going, right?"

"Oh, I didn't plan to. I have to scout on that day, but maybe I can make it if I finish my work early…" She honestly doubted that she'd make it; her work often went overtime.

"You HAVE to come! I also want you to meet Tsubaki—ya know, my partner. I think you'll like her!"

Maka reconsidered her schedule for her part-time job. She could scout any day of the week, but she always chose Friday nights when the young crowds were especially dense. It meant a better probability at finding potential candidates for the agency she worked for—Shibusen, the leading company of the entertainment business. Sometimes she was lucky, and she found candidates on the street, but she usually had a better chance when there were more people around.

Going to the party may bring her one step closer to working on her script, so she did indeed see it as a priority. She really had to make it. But alas, she also took her part-time job seriously, so she finally settled on trying to juggle both.

"Okay, I think I'll go," she finally answered.

"REALLY? You promise to come?"

"Yes, I promise."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This is my first SoMa fic and first time writing an AU. If anyone has any tips or warnings, feel free to comment! Any feedback, whether positive or negative, is welcome. Thanks for reading if you made it this far~


	2. Scene 2

**Disclaimer**: All rights go to their respective owners, and I don't claim anything aside for my love for SoMa. ^_^

**To Fool an Audience**

_by. Stré_

* * *

><p><strong>Scene II<strong>

_[at Gallows Mansion]_

* * *

><p><em>That bastard.<em>

That idiotically annoying obnoxiously air-headed excuse-of-a-friend. He said that he would meet her at the gate, he had replied to her text message to confirm, yet he was still nowhere to be found. She even tried calling, ready to give him an earful for not honouring his word, but it went straight to his _irritating_ voice mail. Walking into the party's main hall did not intimidate her, but she knew that it would be nearly impossible to find her friend: no matter how LOUD and how strikingly eye-catching his blue hair would be, this party nevertheless housed many rivalling loud-mouths such as the infamous Thompson sisters.

Actually, retract that thought. _Finding_ BlackStar would not be the problem, but _catching_ him was the real issue. More alarmingly enough, it was well past midnight, so the guests surely had enough to drink, and her idiot friend certainly never refrained himself from free booze.

If she were to put the blame on anything or anyone for her current predicament, it would surprisingly not be on BlackStar because she expected him to be drunk and more forgetful at this hour—it was a party after all and he did just land himself an excellent leading role, so celebrating was absolutely justified. If he was sober, she would seriously question his sanity.

She could blame herself for being late, but the real factor was no doubt that damn part-time job of hers. She had to work three hours overtime, mainly because she could not find any decent candidates. In truth, she could have just scouted anyone that looked pretty: she would simply give them Shibusen's contact information, say her spiel about the company, try to persuade them into the business, and her job would be done.

However, Maka had the unique ability of _knowing_ when she saw potential, and unlike her ideas in writing that were not always certain of being a success, her acute perception of seeing a future star was always on the mark. She would see that orb of light shining from their core, the one that emitted more brightly from her Papa during the performance that changed her life, and she could just tell if they had a future in the entertainment industry.

During her scouting shifts, she would never approach someone if she did not see the light, but she still had a quota to fill, so working overtime came with the territory. She was rather unlucky tonight, only finding someone mediocre but still with an ounce of potential, so she settled and closed the case. She then had to rush to the party, not even bothering to change nor doll herself up, still clad in casual clothes consisting of a light-ochre oversized sweater and a burgundy pleated short skirt.

That house was huge, she thought to herself. Well, it did belong to the son of the president of Shibusen. With steps of reluctance and defeat from the wait she had endured, she made her way to the grand entrance to look for her childhood friend, but she abruptly stalled when a screaming distressed young man burst open those majestic doors and came rushing towards her.

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! SOMEONE SAVE ME~~~" the poor soul shrieked in desperation, clutching his head, and Maka noticed there was blood leaking from his ears.

She grabbed him by the shoulders, urging him to straighten his posture and look up.

"Kidd, calm down," she said sympathetically. "Just close your eyes and pretend it's not happening." Maka knew exactly what was going on. Maybe not _exactly_, but she knew the gist of it. Kidd, although talented and dignified, had a severe case of OCD when it came to symmetry, and the Thompson sisters, those two beautiful actresses that he recruited and lived with, were surely pulling some stunts to get him riled up.

"I can't. I just can't. I'm a failure. I'm the worst. Let me rot in hell…" He crouched down, hugged his knees and shivered terribly in fear. He continued to mumble words of self-degradation until Maka walked behind him, squatted, and placed her hands over his eyes. She knew what to do because this was certainly not the first time this has happened.

"Kidd, just listen to my voice." She encouraged him to stand as she slowly straightened her legs to an upright position, never letting her hands falter to successfully block his vision. "Think of pretty, orderly things. Like the Pantheon. Or your Egyptian sculpture collection."

She guided him slowly but surely through the threshold and back into the mansion, all the while feeding his imagination with symbols of symmetry. Once in the hall, she could now understand why the usually prim young man was so dishevelled.

It was chaos.

Bottles: beer, hard liquor, champagne, wine, peroxide, paint thinner, just everything imaginable and unimaginable that was consumable yet unlikely digestible was strewn across the floor, sitting on every surface, broken or just empty, while an equal amount of full ones rested in the paws of the many rowdy attendants.

Bodies: fully clothed, barely dressed, in their birthday suits, performing all the possibilities of acts known and unknown to humanity—brawling in the corner, bawling over boys, baring breasts, bearing intoxication, barfing their innards, boning one another…

and…

BlackStar: hanging from a chandelier while Patty Thompson cheered from the sidelines.

That explains why he did not answer his phone, but she would deal with that idiot after she finished handling this OCD nutcase.

"Maka, what's that sound? I hear something cracking. And I don't hear two cracks, only one. Tell me, what _is_ it?" he uttered in panic, trying to pry the girls hands away from his eyes to inspect the damage himself. She ignored his protest and kept her hands firmly where they were.

"You're hearing things, Kidd. There isn't anything wrong, just walk faster," she said in her best fake-calm voice. She managed to get him up the grand staircase and into the hallway, before noticing from the corner of her eye, a blue-haired figure swinging back and forth on that expensive lighting fixture.

Finally arriving at his bedroom, she entered with him and slammed the door shut with extra force to synchronise the noise with the deafening crash from downstairs, presumably BlackStar's success at destruction. Kidd apparently did not notice, much to Maka's relief.

"Okay Kidd. It's late, so just go to sleep." She guided his traumatized body to his bed, and searched the drawer of his bedside table for his earplugs and pyjamas. "Okay, so get changed and then put these on, it'll help you ignore the outside world." She handed him the sound-blocking contraptions along with his more comfortable clothes. "Oh, you might want to clean off the dried blood from your ears too."

He did as he was told, still looking shell-shocked, and was soon in bed. Maka whispered a goodnight that he obviously could not hear, and she excused herself from his room.

Next step: BlackStar.

At this point, she was only here for damage control, and the thought of finding that possible musician partner was placed on hold. She did not want to get her hopes up for something that was highly improbable, so she accepted the fact that tonight would be a disaster and there was no point pining over its outcome. She heaved a heavy sigh, and just as she was about to make her way back downstairs to tame her childhood friend, a thought sprang up in her mind. She wanted to visit that _room_.

Kidd, being the crazy yet sophisticated individual that he was, had set up a series of eight rooms devoted to the various domains of art—painting, sculpture, dance, theatre, film, music, architecture, and literature. He was inspired by the nine Muses of Greek mythology, but he insisted on the number eight and he chose respective disciplines that better reflected contemporary society. Some of those ancient Greek muses, like _Urania_ the muse of astronomy, were totally outdated in Kidd's opinion.

It was not everyday that Maka came to Gallows Mansion, the proclaimed name of this luxurious abode. She may have been good friends with Kidd, but she hardly had the time to visit this place since it was on the outskirts of Death City, and there was not much reason to come here anyways, aside from the wild parties he—or rather the Thompsons—would organise every so often. She therefore saw this as the best opportunity to visit that room, the muse of literature.

In her memory, it was a breathtaking sight: walls lined with gorgeous bookcases filled with innumerable tomes of wisdom and beauty. It was pristine, orderly and symmetrical like the way he liked it, but what marked her most was the musty yet attractive scent of a mature library that drove her to the insane depths of desire. She _needed_ to see it again.

Racking her brain for any hint of its location, she vaguely remembered that it must have been further down the hallway. Asking Kidd was not an option since he was definitely dead to the world, and asking either of the Thompsons was certainly out of the question as they would probably coax her into a drinking game where she would then lose the opportunity to visit the room, or simply lose all of her clothes. Maka felt that peering into every room was the best option—it may have been rude to rummage through someone else's house, but at least she wasn't _breaking_ anything.

The search was like a waltz, a three-part movement: creak the door open, crane her neck inside, take a deep breath. If she smelled that familiar delectable scent of aged parchment, she would know that she was in the right place. She repeated these steps many times, but she quickly grew tired of the dance because the hallway seemed endless; it was taking longer than expected and the impending destruction by the hands of BlackStar was significantly increasing if she did not come to the rescue soon.

For once in her life, she pushed her systematic reasoning aside and followed her intuition. She would chose a door based on its aura, very much like the way she scouts for talents, concentrating on that feeling—the attractive, sensual, passion-evoking aroma that she once experienced in the muse of literature.

She chose a door, creaked it open, craned her neck, but her breath halted.

A piano.

A melody that she could not interpret because she could never associate words to music.

BlackStar had been exaggerating when he accused her of being tone deaf because she could _hear_ music, but she simply could not _understand_ it. Take this song for example. She could physically hear the intricate patterns of notes—it sped up, slowed down, hammered urgently, hummed softly—but she could not understand its language, the words that it was chanting and the expression it was trying to convey. Whether it was weeping in pain or crying out of joy, she could never tell.

Maka slipped her entire body into the dimly-lit room and rested her eyes on the back of the pianist himself, a man in a classy deep-red dress shirt that contrasted starkly against his messy white hair, gliding those long limber fingers across those keys, with ease and composure, like this activity was as simple as breathing. She watched and listened to him at a modest distance, her heart pulsating furiously, rivalling the speed of those trills and sixteenth-notes that he swiftly delivered with perfect accuracy.

The fifteen minutes of the sonata had passed. Fifteen minutes of indescribable feelings.

When the music ended, Maka was not sure how to act. Despite failing at its interpretation, she knew that the piece was beautiful, and she certainly enjoyed the performance. Should she applaud? Maybe say something? Or introduce herself? She wondered if he even sensed her presence at all, and as she continued to ruminate over these questions, the man had solved her query by turning around and looking straight into her eyes.

He was as cryptic as music, and she was left speechless.

Was he handsome? She could not decide. An expression as unreadable as those words in-between the lines, with those intense eyes of rich carmine, this man was not only mysterious, but extremely compelling and she was left at his mercy. But Maka did not let her appearance show any signs of vulnerability, refusing to believe this helplessness, this speechlessness, this _embarrassment_ at actually being stumped and unable to formulate a clear thought, all by the mere gaze of a man.

Her instincts told her to hit him, to smack him _really_ hard so that he would be seeing stars instead of her eyes, but she suppressed this inappropriate urge and instead countered with a fierce look of confidence. She first told him the story of her life—her unwavering courage in the face of fear, her competitive ambitious nature, her determination to succeed—then she hardened her look, attacking his retinas with her burning drive, and essentially declared war as she injected green poison into that lush red blood.

He grinned lopsidedly, as if accepting her challenge, and she could have sworn his teeth had appeared serrated, looking like a demon about to pull her back into his clutches.

It left her heart out of control, her brain in an equal mess. And as the devil turned back to face his keyboard, she would only sink deeper into the chaos that had only just begun.

Rage. Notes clamouring at an unbearable speed, trampling over one another like a violent stampede, they progressed with more anger and force, pummelling their opponents with murderous beats and killer intent. The notes turned into chords like warriors forming squads, but even as they fought in groups and held a semblance of cohesion, they remained unpredictable, scattered, blinded by their wrath. Soldiers then defected from their factions, preferring solo combat, while others gathered into larger teams, creating further complicated patterns to the already chaotic battle. The war escalated to impossible heights as the piano shrieked, wailed in fury, and pleaded for the pain to end.

But it did not. The devil was a greedy bastard, always pushing for more, grasping for every inch of the piano's flesh with blood-thirsty eyes, as he now used his foot pedal to elongate the cacophony which amplified the instrument's pitiful cries. He relished in its delicious pleas of distress, the greed now turned into gluttony as he ravished the sounds of this discordant symphony, leering at its tattered soul with insatiable hunger.

The soldiers however grew tired, and a decrescendo of notes eventually took place. The first movement had ended, but the battle with no victor left an unfinished war. The piano was panting, catching its breath in this moment of god-send rest, but the devil's fingers never braked as he continued to play erratic notes, ranging from a lazy whole to a fervent sixteenth.

While he never left room for a real pause, Maka still found a split second to collect her thoughts and temporarily calm her heart.

This could not be music because she felt like she actually understood it. For once, words were unnecessary for describing her comprehension and she did not bother to translate the sounds that she heard, nor did she even care that logic could possibly fail her. She simply let her mind free, throwing herself in the dissonance that this devil had lured her into.

An important realisation however did occur: this was _her_ music. Perhaps, this feeling could equate to what others experienced when listening to so-called heartfelt symphonies or soulful jazz that she could never seem to relate with. If it indeed was the case, she finally understood its full power without her extensive research and reasoning; she felt its visceral quality through a direct channel, without the chasms of language, and she sincerely envied this devil that could naturally reel the hearts of his prey into his damned world.

The white-haired demon sensed her brief break from his grasp, and he did not appreciate that she had a moment to think. He quickly picked up the tempo, grabbing her attention immediately, and he decided to proceed to the third movement, the one he treasured with quite some pride. She surely would not be able to handle the next part, he thought to himself with overconfidence.

It opened with a series of arpeggios, those rich notes of a chord that were played in succession, like soldiers within a group asserting their individuality one by one. Their yells were still discordant, screaming over one another's voice, desperately crying for their identity that was lost in the battlefield. They were tired of fighting, fed up of war and its atrocities, but they still held the passion and drive to continue living despite their crimes. The pace of this movement was urgent yet drawn out, stretching chords that left her wanting more, delivering that distinct cacophonic style yet coupling it with bouts of harmony.

While she loved the sheer tremor of dissonance, she absolutely _craved_ those moments of synched resonance. It left parts of her body other than just her heart trembling in desire, particularly the regions where she would never indulge herself, places that were too sinful to even consider. This devil seemed to know the right buttons to push, the areas he could touch and leave her screaming for more, yet the music entered another lull, waning towards the grand finale as he commanded his troupes to raise their hands and drop their weapons. The war had ended, but the conflict was not over, as repercussions still lingered on in the hearts of the people.

It was then that she saw it. That blue orb buried deep inside his chest now swelled at an alarming rate, matching the ascending volume of that crescendo of notes, soon engulfing the entire piano with its intensity.

He poured himself out. It leaked from every crevasse of the instrument, pooled onto the floor and shifted to high-tide, effectively drowning the girl within the depths of his inner being. Each key was the voice of a soldier, speaking all at once and creating layers upon layers of diverse emotions that were bottled up, now exploding into a collective cry that resounded much like a harmonized cacophony.

She choked from the overload. These raw emotions were too much to bear, she felt faint, blinded by its power, yet she could not get enough of it, fully determined to stay composed and conscious to successfully intake every last moment of this insanity. This devil may have dragged her into sin, but the feeling was undeniably amazing.

Her own masterpiece then flashed before her eyes. She already had ideas of what she needed to write, but in this moment, she saw it more clearly. Every scene, the imagery, the dialogue, the emotions, the _meaning_.

This was it. He was it.

_Her __weapon_.

The finale drew a close, and with arms limply falling to his sides, the white-haired man took a stand. He was panting, completely worn out, while all traces of his demon persona had vanished like the music that no longer existed in this now silent room. At first, he continued to stare at those black and white keys, seemingly awed and shocked by his own performance, but he quickly turned around to see if he had successfully scared off that annoyingly cocky young woman.

When he saw that she was still there, standing and actually smiling like there was no tomorrow, he originally thought that he would feel defeated at failing to intimidate her, but he instead felt a warm comfort spread throughout his being. The corner of his mouth then instinctively lifted into a smirk that seemed to say "that's the type of guy I really am." Her eyes responded with excitement.

"What's your name?"

"Soul."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The first piano piece that Soul played was inspired by the first movement of Beethoven's _Sonata no. 23 "Appassionata"_. Go check it out if you've never heard it before; I can somehow see Soul playing it. ^_^

As for the second "piece", I went to go bang on my own piano but it just sounded retarded, like I was fighting with it or something, hence the war metaphors. Then somehow the cliché seven deadly sins wormed their way in there, so I hope it wasn't too cheesy. o_0

Also, I hope no one felt any KiMa vibes because that was really NOT my intention. I actually wrote that bit so that it would erase any future signs of Kid being a love interest, since I think they're strictly friends.

Feedback is love like usual. Thanks for reading!


	3. Scene 3

**Scene III**

_[at his workplace, at the coffee shop]_

* * *

><p>He stood behind the counter, hands lazily inputting numbers into the register, when a blur of ash blonde caught his attention from the corner of his eye.<p>

She was here again. _Shit_.

He kept his focus on the small line-up of customers he needed to serve, purposely drawing out his words and moving at an extra slow pace to delay the inevitable encounter with that persistent girl. He knew her routine by now, since it was the ninth time that she showed her face at this dingy video rental store: she would first peruse the aisles with mild interest for the movies, occasionally picking one up and reading the synopsis on its backside to kill some time, then when she noticed that he was no longer busy, her feet would casually lead her to the check-out counter where he was stationed, and the annoying persuasion talk would thus begin. He didn't want to think about what was going to come, so he continued his languid movements, not caring that he was providing horrible customer service.

When anything went wrong, it was usually BlackStar's fault, and this situation was certainly a prime example. Roughly two weeks ago, his loudmouth friend just had to drag him to a party that he didn't want to attend in the first place; he even dressed formally for the occasion since his friend told him that the host was rich and classy, but the event turned out nothing like what he had anticipated. It ended up being a regular wild party in casual attire, so he certainly felt out of place in his black pinstripe suit, deep-red shirt and black tie. He should never assume, especially when BlackStar was involved.

Parties were always an awkward thing for him, and physically standing out made the ordeal even worse, but he couldn't have just left because he promised his friend that he would be his wingman and keep him under control. BlackStar really wanted to make a good impression on his acting partner, and he was miraculously doing a good job keeping his liquor content low, his behaviour relatively under wrap. It surely impressed Soul who felt that his presence was hardly needed.

However, as the night progressed, the other attendants started to become more rowdy, and impending doom was drawing near. So when that girl Tsubaki finally had to leave early, well before midnight, Soul knew that his job was done—BlackStar had successfully made a good impression—but he also knew that the _real_ celebration had just begun, and he wanted nothing of it. He instead took the liberty to follow Kidd who eagerly wanted to show him the Eight Rooms that he was boasting about throughout the night; that muse of music had piqued Soul's interest and he was curious to see it before heading home.

Kidd took an unnecessarily long time explaining his favourites, particularly the room of architecture, before finally arriving at the one devoted to music. By that time, the party's wildness had significantly worsened, and when the host received a text message from Liz Thompson saying that there was "something" that he _had_ to see downstairs, Soul was left alone with that imposing grand piano in the center of the room. His fingers were itching to tickle that ivory board—it had been a long time since he last had the opportunity to stumble upon such an expensive instrument, and he craved to hear its sound.

It was in that room that he had met the girl that was presently stalking him, now throwing discrete glances in his direction, despite holding a video cover that she was supposedly reading in deep concentration. Female admirers were nothing new to him, he usually couldn't be bothered by them, but there was something about this particular case that left him unsettled. Upon their first meeting, he knew that this girl's aura was far from ordinary, she exuded way too much confidence for such an average-looking girl with a bust perhaps even below-average, but he had to admit that her strong gaze could punch his lights out, kicking him hard in the face—although he'd rather be kicked around by those fine legs instead. He noticed that she wore another one of those short skirts of hers, revealing the smoothness of that fair skin on her thighs right down to those ankles that were hidden beneath white booties…

But appearance aside, she was no doubt stalking him and that was a problem where BlackStar was the cause. The stupid blabbermouth must have divulged the exact location of his workplace because there was no way this girl could have found it on her own, sure she seemed thorough with a sharp eye for detail, but this place was really remote.

Speaking of eyes, her green pair was now locked onto its target, her tempting legs slowly making their way to the counter, as the last person in line paid for their rental and left the store. He braced himself for the confrontation, and before she had the chance to open that annoying mouth of hers, he decided to cut to the chase.

"Look, for the hundredth time, I'm not interested. I've given up music a long time ago, and I've got no intention of playing again," he said with finality, gathering all the confidence he could muster.

"No intention? Then why were you playing the piano that night?" she retorted with equal confidence, with a cut-throat edge that almost made him wince.

The little smartass, could she stop reminding him of that mishap? It was _one_ time. _One_ friggin' mistake—indeed a mind-blowing experience it was—but dammit, that didn't mean a god damn thing! He kept his thoughts to himself, and gave her a look of indifference, shrugging his shoulders as if to say that he had no idea and that he couldn't care less.

"Seems to me, someone's just being a coward," she commented with condescendence, rolling her eyes, and sighing as if he was a lost cause.

He couldn't just take that silently, not when she was being so blatantly rude.

"You don't know a god damn thing," he mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" She held a cupped hand behind her ear, a gesture to mock his poor articulation. "Speak more clearly, and just admit that you're a coward."

"I said you don't know a god damn fuckin' thing so shut the hell up!" he growled, teeth appearing serrated like the demon she saw that fateful night. There were no customers in the store, but even if there were, he wouldn't have hesitated to swear loudly since this girl was grating at his nerves.

"I don't know a thing? Well there's one thing that I _do_ know." She searched for eye contact, and her gaze quickly met his. The green looked so full of emotion that he briefly believed that she was going to change the topic, perhaps address something that a normal guy-girl pair would discuss, especially when said girl diligently visited him for the past two weeks, always wearing some form of mini-skirt that potentially held an ulterior motive, maybe insinuating things that he probably shouldn't be considering at the moment.

"You fully have the intention of playing again," she finally said. He broke the eye contact.

"Mind your own business," he replied to the floor, hoping that she did not sense any disappointment in his rumbling voice. It's not like he was _really_ expecting anything, and it's not like he would have agreed to that _something_ anyways.

"Can you say that clearly while looking into my eyes? Can you say that you don't want to play music anymore? That you _hate_ music, and don't want anything to do with it?" She was challenging him at full force. Her arms never left her side, but it seemed like she was grabbing his shoulders and shaking him furiously. She certainly wanted to do that, but she kept her attacks verbal for the time being.

"I don't wanna play music anymore," he said with monotony, avoiding her gaze.

"Are you deaf? I said to give me eye contact!" She slammed her palm against the counter, trying to nullify her urge to smack him.

He looked up, and seeing that piercing look, the one that could see through any lie, he simply didn't know what to do. This was all too annoying, and he didn't feel like dealing with this, with her.

"Listen, no matter what you say, I don't want to write god damn music for your stupid play, so can you please get the hell outta here?" He kept a firm look this time.

Her cheeks flushed red, flaring in anger. She didn't care that he was kicking her out, but insulting her play was out of line.

"_First __of __all_, my play's NOT stupid. It's going to be brilliant and award-winning," she instructed through gritted teeth, leaning her body closer to the counter. "And second of all, I don't care if you _want_ to write music, the fact is that you _are __going_ to write it."

Okay… what was this bitch playing at? WHO the hell did she think she was? He barely knew her, and yet she was commanding him like some tool. Now _he_ was pissed off, but he kept his composure.

"So tell me. If you're so smart to be able to write this award-winning play, then why don't you just write the music yourself?" He was impressed by his calm tone because he was certainly overflowing with anger inside.

"Ugh, I thought I made that obvious: I suck at music. No matter how hard I tried to learn and understand it, I just fail, and believe me, I don't accept failure, but music is the exception." He was a bit surprised by her modest answer. She didn't seem like the type to admit her shortcomings, so he wondered if this was a tactic to get him to finally agree, or maybe she was just honest and really blunt. His mind told him that it was the former, but his gut told him that it was the latter.

"And besides, even if I could write my own, I'd never be able to do it better than you. That piano piece you played was really awesome, and that's why I know you're an amazing musician," she spoke with absolute sincerity, her anger seemed to have cooled down, but a slight blush was still apparent on her cheeks.

The compliment caught him off-guard, and his bottling rage subsided at the sight of her pink flush. The "piece" he played that night wasn't exactly a normal composition—even those with the finest of ears and the greatest of experience could not necessarily understand it, yet this girl who knew nothing of music actually enjoyed it? To the point where she would visit him, without fail, to every one of his shifts, and it wasn't like it was convenient to get to—he knew that she lived on the other side of town, closer to BlackStar's apartment. Her determination was admirable, and a part of him wanted to help her succeed, but still, he wasn't prepared to accept her request. He just couldn't write music again. He needed to shake her off, and refusing outright wasn't working, so he changed his tactic.

"Why are you so driven?" he asked.

The girl looked mildly surprised by this change of topic, but she replied quickly with her signature confidence.

"It's because I want to accept myself."

He raised his brow at the cryptic response. She elaborated.

"My parents are famous, and I've always felt the pressure to succeed and become like them. But following in your parents' footsteps—that's like following a shadow!" She nervously chuckled to herself, wondering if she sounded ridiculous, but she was reassured by his intent gaze that ushered her to continue speaking. "I feel that to finally accept who I am, I have to accept where I came from, so I need to first get rid of the burden of my parents' prestige. If I can surpass their merits, I can finally move on to my own path. Does that make any sense at all?"

She couldn't read his expression, but she somehow felt that he understood.

"You may think this play is stupid, but to me, it needs to be award-winning. If I can win the Shinigami's Choice in the next round, I will officially surpass my mother who won the award a little older than my age. And once I do, I'll no longer be under her shadow. I can finally be myself." She smiled warmly, her expression radiating such genuine hope for the future.

He didn't expect such an answer. And that smile. Dammit! His question was supposed to divert her, maybe get her flustered and wondering why she was driven, and then she would leave him alone to think about her own motives…

"Well, Soul. It's getting late, so I should probably leave. See ya around…"

And so, he did get what he wanted—she left—but he did not feel triumphant or relieved about it. In fact, he was the one left with too many thoughts swimming in his mind.

* * *

><p>Why.<p>

That three letter word plagued him. Why couldn't he get their conversation out of his head? She indeed had visited him again at his workplace, but she did not try to persuade him. Instead, she walked around, looked at the videos, casually engaged in small talk, then gave him a look. And after that long stare of god-knows-what-the-hell-she-was-trying-to-guilt-him-into, she smiled and took her leave. She didn't show up to any of his subsequent shifts, and although it had only been a week, he could not understand why he felt unnerved when he should be glad that she was no longer stalking him. But even worse, he could not understand just _why_ the hell he was _actually_ starting to consider her request…

Okay, so she did have a point: he still loved music. That was the reason why he couldn't deny it to her face because he could never lie to himself, and apparently nor to her. Writing music was however an entirely different case, since he really had no intention of ever doing it again. It wasn't an easy task and frankly, he no longer had the drive, or more specifically, the inspiration. He had once tried after he quit playing classical, but he quickly lost motivation because the absolute freedom caused paralysis: when there were no boundaries, he had no idea where to start or which direction to take, like wandering without any goals or getting lost in the endless desert of music, totally left at a standstill and never making any steps forward. Yet why was he starting to warm up to the idea now? Maybe her ambition was contagious…

The questions did not cease, and the most perplexing one at the moment was why he had called BlackStar for some information. He had no idea what had possessed him to do it, and it was beyond his comprehension as to why he had asked for the most likely place where she would be, apparently this no-name coffee shop that he was currently standing in front of, debating if he really should breach its threshold and enter the path of no return.

As he slowly pushed open the door, he convinced himself that he was just being a good samaritan, and that he pitied her for being so musically inept. He adamantly admitted that she had another point: he certainly did not _want_ to write music, but while he scanned the area for that distinct ash blonde and then spotted it in the far corner, it really dawned onto him that he _was __going_ to write it. He was too much of a nice guy, he thought to himself.

He weaved his way past the crowded tables, ignoring the furtive glances of every female customer, and finally found himself in front of the one female that could not care less that he was there, with her nose buried deep inside a book, her body surrounded by mounds of other tomes and papers like this place was her personal office. He felt a little awkward to tap her shoulder or call her name, so he smoothly slid himself in the booth, sitting back comfortably across from her and waiting for her to respond.

Despite being completely immersed in her work, she could not help but detect the presence of a person, and before looking up, she had the feeling that she knew who it was going to be. And like the many points that she had been right about, she once again scored a correct answer. Celebratory fireworks furiously popped in her mind and she internally danced to the festivities of her elation, yelling 'Success!', 'In your face!', 'Look who's boss!', but in order not to scare him off, she kept her façade as stoic as his indifferent demeanour.

Her eyes met his, and another alarming question dawned onto him. This time, it wasn't a 'why', but rather a 'what' or maybe a 'how'. What should he say? How should he tell her? His face never revealed an ounce of worry, but his mind was a complete panicked mess. He didn't care that much about pride, but he simply didn't know how to approach the topic, in fear of being hounded with more questions about his past or future ambitions. He assumed that she was the type to pry into his affairs, and he really didn't feel like explaining himself. If he could formulate his words in a way that would leave no openings for questions, that would be perfect, but his brain didn't seem to be functioning all that efficiently at the moment.

Maka could not read his face—she was sure that no one could because it always remained the same, aside from the occasions where he would appear like a demon with serrated teeth. She however could read the atmosphere, and the silence spelt out 'hesitation' in great bold letters. Such a word did not exist in her vocabulary, so she took the initiative to dive right into discussion.

"So I've drafted the outline of the story, but I'm really far from tackling the actual script. There's still a lot of research that needs to get done." She rummaged through her pile of notes and pushed forward a stack for him to leaf through. The handwriting may have been legible but the annotations were so dense that he nearly had to squint to make out the words.

"The working title is 'The Black Room'," she informed with an encouraging smile, still waiting for him to make some verbal contribution. When nothing came, she continued to break the silence.

"The characters need a lot of work, but that should come naturally when the script is developed. I've also outlined the sequence of songs that are needed, but that's also going to need a lot of work." She handed him another sheet with the list of tentative song titles and descriptions; it looked rather meek in comparison to the heavily annotated text of her plot outline. Clearly, music was not her forte.

"But once again, that's all going to fall into place in due course. Our most pressing matter is to get the research out of the way. I've organised a list of places to visit, so now I just have to figure out a schedule. When are you available?"

Wow. Straight to business. No questions asked, aside from his availability. He realised that he should never assume, or maybe, she was just the exception to the rule.

"I pretty much only work at the video rental store. My hours fluctuate a little, but they're about the same like when you visited me," he lazily informed.

"Okay great." She pulled out her agenda, and took note of what he just said. "But if there are any specific nights that I need you to reserve off, is it possible to get rid of a shift?"

"Sure, that should be fine."

"Are you free this Saturday? At 11AM?"

Saturday was in two days. Gosh, this girl was eager.

"Umm… sure. I've got something at 5, so as long as it doesn't take that long…" He watched her take more notes, wondering why it was even necessary when their meeting was in a mere two days.

"Naw, it shouldn't go past 5." She finally looked up from her agenda. "Okay, so how about we meet at the Deathbucks on 8th Avenue, corner Crescent?"

"Sure," he casually responded, making a mental note instead of writing it down.

"Great, so I'll see ya then." She closed her agenda, and he took that as his cue to leave. "Be sure not to be late," she added with a teasing frown.

He replied with a smirk, lazily slid out of the booth, and slowly turned around to face the exit. Their meeting had flowed far smoother than he would have ever fathomed, and he was so deep into his own thoughts that he did not notice that Maka had also climbed out of her seat and was standing right behind him. It was only when her thin arms laced around his torso, her chest pressing tightly against his back, that he realised just how much he had left his guard down.

"Thanks, Soul," she whispered gently, hoping that the embrace conveyed all the gratitude and extreme happiness she felt.

He really was on the path of no return, but why would he even want to turn around when the road was paved with such unexpected and interesting things? Actually, it would be _quite_ interesting to turn around at this very moment, just to see what kind of embarrassed expression she was wearing…

Naw, that wasn't necessary. He could already feel the warm flush radiating from her body, and he didn't want to ruin the mood since he would surely make a sassy remark. He would keep it simple and leave the teasing for another time.

"No problem, Maka. See ya Saturday."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

And so it really begins! ^_^ At first, it was so ridiculously platonic that it wouldn't even be considered SoMa, so I hope those hints were justified and not out of character or random.

Btw, I'm quite aware that BlackStar may be a little OOC…I mean, he wouldn't care much about making a good impression, but I'm basically using him just to keep the plot rolling... oh the joys of minor characters; how I love to bend them at my will. hehe

Thanks for reading~


	4. Scene 4

**Scene IV**

_[at a daycare, at apartment 506]_

* * *

><p>"Maka, why are we spying on children?" said Soul with absolute monotony, watching a little girl in a fluffy white dress just get pushed to the ground by a snotty boy of the same age. Nearly two months had passed since he agreed to work with her, yet there didn't seem to be any progress with the script.<p>

"We're not spying. We're observing," Maka snapped back. "And how many times do I have to tell you. We're doing research." She averted her gaze back to the whining children, the little girl now wailing and flailing her arms on the floor as the matron tried to calm her down.

Soul was about to protest, but he finally decided to leave it be. He had already asked this question many times before, and always received the same answer. Research. They were certainly searching, but he had no idea how the 're' fit in because every place they visited had no connection to one another. No repetition, no reconsidering. This wasn't fuckin' _re_search! It was just a search!

He couldn't quit, not like he really had the intention, but maybe he could have at least sneaked his way out of this preliminary "research" part. But now that he was this far in the game, breaking the commitment would only be seen as a loss of trust, and he certainly didn't want that to happen.

In hindsight, he wouldn't have been able to anticipate the absurdity of the research plans because the first place had been simple enough: _Deathbucks_ café on a rainy day. They watched the barista serve coffee to customers, from young college students to the retired folk; they had observed couples, business men, and the occasional homeless person. It was a normal sample of the population, in a normal setting, engaging in very normal activity.

The next place had been bizarre for a boy to visit, but not quite out of the ordinary either. He had gone to a… What did she call it again? Oh yeah, a sample sale. They had waited in line for more than an hour, and when they got in, it was pure chaos: women everywhere, clawing their manicured hands onto discount items, struggling in desperation to attain their desired garments. It was vicious like a cock fight. Only there certainly weren't any cocks around, aside from his.

The third was another event that Soul would not fathom going to, let alone even knowing about its existence. She had taken him to a roller derby competition, and he watched his first match of scantily clad butch women duke it out, roller-skating around a rink. Perhaps, it did have some sort of connection to the previous place, it was mainly female for one, but this was definitely a different type of population, engaging in a very different type of activity. His eyes widened as a girl's bikini top got yanked off, revealing her goods to the audience before falling face flat on the floor. He couldn't see the relevance.

Soul was even more confused when they reached their fourth destination: Death City International Airport's outdoor parking lot. Yes, a parking lot. Maka directed him to the far left where they could get the closest view of the airplanes taking off, and surely enough, they were so close that Soul felt unsteady on his motorbike when a carrier passed them by. It rumbled a deafening sound and the poor musician feared damage to his precious aural assets. Maka did not breathe a word of explanation as she deeply concentrated on the vehicles, occasionally jotting down a word or two.

Fifth, sixth, seventh and ongoing. They were all weird and held no logic. While he did enjoy the jazz night and that strip club she had brought him to, the rest were dull and cryptic like that time they watched a butcher decapitate the carcass of poultry or that other instance where they stood in the walk-in freezer of a supermarket for an hour. If he said any of those were the most bizarre, he would have to take back his words because the sixteenth set a new record.

"Maka, why are we watching flames disintegrate garbage?" he recalls asking during that odd idea of an excursion.

"It's research, Soul."

It always boiled down to that same word. Even as they stared at the combustion, inhaling putrid wafts of soiled remains, they were simply doing research. How did this apply to music and theatre? No clue. No fuckin' clue. That day, he left the garbage incinerator plant without snapping at Maka, but he told himself that he would speak up if the next place seemed random and irrelevant to their cause.

As he now watched the brats play in the grounds, his patience was wearing thin, but Soul was a very patient person, always kept his emotions in check, and was never one to lose his cool.

"Okay, I think we're done for today," Maka informed as she shut her notebook. She looked genuinely pleased with herself. "We're really productive. This marks exactly half of my research plans."

Forget being cool; this called for an intervention.

He strode right in front of her, taking quick notice of their height difference as he looked down at her alarmed expression. Before she could process what was happening, he had already gripped her by the shoulder and pressed her against the fence.

"Maka, what the fuck are we doing?" he growled as the girl's eyes widened in shock at his sudden outburst. She jerked her shoulder, easily pulling herself out of his grasp since he was not using much force to begin with. He let his arm fall back to his side and shoved his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie.

"Gosh, Soul. I don't know how many times I have to tell you, we're doing—

"Research. Yes, I know. Care to explain just how this applies to music?" he asked rather bitterly.

"You're so annoying, Soul! Why can't you just trust me?" she angrily whined, her face growing hot and her ears nearly fuming steam.

Was this girl serious? Why was she getting mad when he was the one that should feel pissed off? He took a mental note that _questioning_ her was a mortal sin.

"I do trust you. I just asked for an explanation." He changed his tone into a neutral one, but Maka was already feeling badgered and it was not enough to tame her anger.

"Well, if you're asking, than that means you have doubt, which means you don't trust me," she said with conviction. Her flushed pouty cheeks were kind of cute, but this situation was getting annoying.

"I don't see how doubt would have anything to do with trust!"

"It totally does! If you're being sceptical and asking questions, then it means that you don't have complete faith. And faith is the same as trust."

"So you're telling me to follow you blindly?"

"Well, obviously."

A few thoughts raced in his mind at that moment. For one, he admired how blunt she could be. If it would have been him, he wouldn't be so direct and he would instead try to worm his words into a nicer way of saying that my-commands-are-divine-and-you-must-obey-me-without-question. But of course, that took more time, so he had to commend her efficiency.

Secondly, and more importantly, he officially felt worn-out from all of this dull research, the inspiration to write music was still not surfacing, and her 'godly' ways were not helping his case. This confrontation was an example of loosing his patience, and he didn't want to piss her off more than he already has. He needed a break.

"Look, just call me when the script's done. I'm not backing down, but I just don't have time to waste on this bullshit."

His back was turned before he could take notice of her pained expression. He was glad that she didn't call out his name because he would certainly have gone back and likely obey her every command.

* * *

><p>It wasn't easy saying sorry.<p>

For Maka, her stubborn nature led her to believe that she had done nothing wrong and she was convinced that he would quickly call her to apologize, but after the third week of no contact, she began to question her own actions. Maybe she _was_ being unreasonable, and maybe he was waiting for her to make amends.

When she thought about it deeply, a partnership did rely on trust, but it also meant being cooperative. She really should have listened to his opinion, but she couldn't have possibly explained the reason for her research. It would reveal a big part of her insecurities as a 'writer' and that wasn't something she felt like elaborating. In comparison, saying sorry would be easier and less complicated.

It was past midnight when she came to the conclusion: she would visit him at his workplace tomorrow and apologize for her attitude. She hoped that he wouldn't ask too many questions—he never did, so she felt reassured—then they could go back to work on the script, with ears fully opened to each other's speech.

Meanwhile, Soul had also been deep into thought, debating whether his words were too harsh, and nearly convinced that Maka would never forgive him for lashing out. Now that the third week of silence was approaching the fourth, he finally caved and made it his top priority to straighten things out.

He could have called, but he really felt the need to do it in person, in a private setting. He wondered if midnight was too late, but he knew that she often worked in the evenings, and he certainly wanted to make sure that she was home. He already felt embarrassed from calling BlackStar for her address, so waiting by her doorstep like a lost pup was not an option.

He stared at the number 506 for a little while, still reluctant to knock on her door, but he finally mustered the courage and tapped it gently, his heartrate increasing at every second of wait.

On the other side of the door, the sound had jolted Maka out of her thoughts and she immediately wondered who would visit her so late. It couldn't have been Papa, since he usually banged or yelled loudly. Same case for BlackStar. It would usually be her roommate Blair who often forgot her keys, but she was surprisingly already home; she apparently had an important early morning photoshoot the following day, so she should even be fast asleep.

Maka had no idea who it could be, so she brought along a weapon—her thick book—just in case it was someone with ill intentions. She turned the lock slowly, and opened the door barely an inch to finally reveal—

"SOUL!" She clamped her hand against her mouth, dropping her book, and realising that she could have woken up Blair from the ruckus.

He looked at her lazily, about to go straight to the point and apologize, but she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and forced him inside.

"My roommate's sleeping, so lets talk in my room," she whispered in a nearly inaudible tone, trying to make up for her previous loud behaviour. He didn't have much time to observe her apartment before he was quickly ushered into a room close to the kitchen.

Her bedroom was modest and very gender neutral with walls of soft yellow ochre. He took a seat on her bed, briefly noticing that this could be a normally promising situation if he didn't have to confront her with an apology. The scent was distinctively feminine, refreshing and natural just like she was to him. His nose enjoyed the sensation.

Maka seemed quite shocked at herself for boldly pulling this fine male specimen into her lair. She didn't understand why she had the pressing urge to hide Soul from Blair, but her reflexes just worked on their own accord, so she now stared at him while he casually sat on the piece of furniture that was designed primarily for slumber, but also held the secondary function of providing a comfortable unit for two (or multiple) individuals to engage in—she didn't want to complete that sentence.

It was in this moment that the word 'hesitation' entered her vocabulary, and Soul seemed to have sensed it. He broke the silence, not by apologizing, but by making his way towards a curious object that hung on the wall next to her desk.

"You play guitar?" He lightly plucked a string, only to hear that it was terribly out of tune. He already could predict her answer.

"No," she obviously replied. "It was Papa's. I never bothered to learn because, as you're well aware, I'm hopeless with music…"

He chuckled and picked up the guitar. Although he was pianist, all musical instruments piqued his interest. He proceeded to tune the strings, since it would be a shame to leave this beauty in rusty neglect.

"Do _you_ play guitar?" she wondered, fascinated by his ability to fiddle with the tuning keys and make the sound harmonize.

"Not that well. But my brother's really into string instruments, so I was exposed to it a lot." He was tuning the 5th string as he spoke. "I know the basics, and it's a pretty good tool for song writing because it's simple."

"How can that be _simple_?" she said sceptically. "You have to hit the string while pressing down at the same time with the other hand. It's so complicated and confusing!" She knew that she was raising her voice, but she simply couldn't keep it down. Music always seemed to fluster her.

He chuckled again, letting those rumbles shake her core.

"Here, let me show you how easy it is." He handed her the newly tuned instrument, but she simply stared at it with mild repulsion. "C'mon Maka, sit down and relax."

She did as she was told, and took a seat on her bed while he quickly placed the guitar on her lap, with the curve of its body resting on her thigh. He took her left hand and guided it to the top of the fretboard; she was extremely distracted by his touch, by his strong digits briefly clutching onto hers.

"Now stick your middle finger and ring finger together, and place the pair by the second fret, on the fifth and fourth string."

"Wait slow down with the instructions…middle finger…second fret? What's a fret?" She was already terribly confused. He intervened by placing her fingers in position for her, and she was once again paying more attention to his rough skin, instead of on the task at hand.

"Just hold that in place, and lightly stroke all of the strings in one motion with your other hand. But don't hit them too hard because we don't want to wake up your roommate."

She played her first chord, a little clumsily, but it was harmonized nonetheless.

"That wasn't so painful, now was it?" he asked teasingly.

"Umm.. my fingers are already starting to hurt. Look, it's made an indent!" She showed him the tip of her digits, and indeed, there was a light crevasse.

"That's normal because you have no callous. If you rub it, it'll disappear right away." He grabbed her hand and massaged the area with his thumb, noticing just how soft her skin felt. "See? It's all gone, so now you can play again." She puffed her cheeks at his declaration.

"No way. And I didn't really like that chord. I don't know how to describe it, but I just didn't like it."

He looked at her seriously for a second, but then burst into laughter, as if she had just told him some inside joke that she was not even aware of.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked, but he ignored her question.

"If you don't like the E minor chord, I'll teach you something different that might suit you better," he assured, but she really didn't look convinced. "It's a little more tricky because you gotta use your pinky, but it'll be worth it."

Maka complied, even though she did feel rather belittled from not understanding why he was so amused. She nevertheless felt warm at the sight of his face relaxed and smiling, with his strong hands trying to keep her fumbling ones into place.

"Okay, now give it a ring," he finally announced.

She strummed lightly, and immediately smiled in delight.

"Yes! I like this one a lot!" She happily continued to play the chord, not caring that her rhythm was off, and simply enjoying the sound of the notes complemented by Soul's laughter.

"I still don't get why you're laughing so much." She had stopped playing because her fingers couldn't take any more pressure from holding the position.

"You were absolutely right. I _am_ a genius," he asserted pretentiously, but with that bemused glint in his eye. "When we first met, I thought you resembled G major."

"G major?" She couldn't follow what he was talking about; all this music jargon was really beyond her.

"Yeah, it's the chord you just played."

Maka was officially impressed, and this statement was enough to make her realise that she had been wrong about something else: Soul didn't need to be with her for the research because he worked different, perhaps more naturally, and simply didn't need to rely on studying information to do his job right. With her newfound trust in his abilities, she knew that he would definitely be able to pull out the perfect music with her script.

"Hey Soul, there's something that I wanted to say—

"There's also something that I wanted to say," he interjected.

Their eyes met in firm contact, and both could see what each other wanted to say in that instant, as if they were riding the same wavelength. Words were no longer necessary, and they both smiled simultaneously at the strange occurrence.

"I think we just had some psychic moment right there," he commented, still grinning at her.

"Yeah, I guess we'll just leave it at that," she agreed, beaming back with a smile that warmed his soul.

"Oh shit, look at the time," he said abruptly, noticing that their meeting lasted much longer than expected. "It's getting really late, so I should go…"

"Just wait until the morning, it's only in a few hours. I don't trust it's safe riding a motorbike in the dark." Her eyes narrowed at the thought of his preferred method of transportation.

"Oh c'mon, Maka. I ride my baby when I'm _drunk_. The dark's not going to—

"Please," she whined. "I'm going to worry because you live so far away. Just stay the night."

When a girl with gorgeous green eyes intently locks her gaze into his, and pleads him to stay the night, what can the healthy hetero boy possibly respond?

"Okay fine."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'm still working out the details on how I want to end this sequence, so I decided to leave it there for now. Any feedback on the pacing would be very much appreciated. (i.e. Is it too slow? Too fast? Just right?)

Updates are a little slow on this story because I'm currently writing two other SoMa fics! (One of them is another one-shot, while the other may take some time to develop.)

Oh, and in case people were wondering, Maka's 'room' is based on Soul's room in the Anime. I watched episode 14 to see the colour of his walls, and they were yellow…but if it appears otherwise in another episode, do forgive my inaccuracy. He also had a guitar, so I just had to put it to good use. ^_^


	5. Scene 5

**Scene V**

_[at Shibusen]_

* * *

><p>The soles of her heavy boots squeaked irritably against the slate tiles of Shibusen's corridor, causing every familiar face to conspire in hushed tones about the drastic change in her behaviour, since she usually walked in dignified strides, with a back perfectly straight and not lazily arched like it currently appeared. Some of those concerned eyes initiated a 'good morning' that she responded with only a curt nod, occasionally forcing her lips to curve into a weak smile when her co-workers shot especially worried expressions, namely when she had stumbled and almost tripped over her own feet.<p>

Her mind replayed the events of the previous night, or rather, the events of just a few hours ago. She tried to formulate a logical explanation for _Operation: Hide Soul from Blair_, but she only ran into dead-ends, and she blamed her exhaustion for the blanks in her reasoning. Maybe when she was more awake, she would be able to understand why she had grabbed his arm when he was going to exit her room to crash on her couch.

* * *

><p>"<em>You can sleep on my bed," she had innocently offered.<em>

"_Don't worry, Maka. The couch's fine. There's no way that I'd let a girl give up her bed." He was pretty set on his decision as his hand reached for the doorknob, but she tightened her grip and dragged him back to her bed._

"_There's room for the two of us. Just sleep here with me." _

* * *

><p>Sleep here with me? She really did not understand how such words could roll off of her tongue, in such a nonchalant and composed way. In that moment, she wasn't self-conscious of the fact that she was inviting a member of the opposite sexe to sleep in the same bed as her; she was too preoccupied with thoughts of Blair pouncing on Soul if he was lying on the couch, since her roommate considered everything in any communal space as part of her own possessions, and if she found this unidentified male to her liking, she would not hesitate to take a bite, just like she had once done to Papa. The worse part of that last memory was that her Papa had reciprocated, but Maka preferred to forget that traumatizing event.<p>

Bottom line: Blair was a hazard and Soul's safety was top priority.

But after spending the night (or early morning) in such proximity to his warm male body with the enticing scent of his cologne/deodorant/body wash/laundry detergent/whatever boys used to keep themselves smelling attractive, and while she suffered the debilitating effects of sleep-deprivation that was presently tainting her perfect-appearance reputation, she realised that his safety was simply not worth it. If she let him venture into no-man's-land, vulnerable on that couch, she may have still been awake and restless from worry, but at least she would not be left with this horrible feeling of self-consciousness and hyper-awareness of his newfound attractive features.

They 'slept' with their backs turned, but this did not stop her from taking a peak at him—in her defence, she was just checking to see if he was asleep. He had taken off his shirt before climbing in the bed, and she had not opposed or questioned his decision because the room was rather hot and he was nevertheless wearing a sleeveless undershirt, something that pop culture called a 'wife-beater' but she refused to acknowledge that horrible slang.

Her eyes could only catch the upper part of his torso, an arm limply placed outside of the covers and a decent portion of his back that was left exposed. Those dorsal muscles gently curved, indenting at the spine, and formed a picturesque landscape that her fingers desperately wanted to explore. But the journey would continue and the route extended along his arm, pausing at the firm deltoid, hopping between the hint of the bicep and the sturdy triceps, defined even without flexion. He had just the right amount muscle, from what she could observe in that dim light. The elbow joint then moved to a beautiful forearm that finally led to his sinfully delicious hand, with long fingers that could deftly play any musical instrument, and she bashfully wondered if women were included in his repertoire.

With her mind blinded by shameful thoughts of his gorgeous physique, she failed to notice the collision that was about to happen in real-time as she turned the corner of the hallway. Her posture may have appeared lazy today, but her sharp reflexes were far from asleep: her feet did stagger back from the impact, but she stood her ground and barely took any damage, with only her sight momentarily winded by the force. When her eyes focused back to the situation, she realised that her poor victim was pushed to the ground, with choppy light-blonde hair slightly dishevelled, and papers scattered all over the floor.

"Oh my goodness, Ms Boyd! I'm so sorry!" Maka exclaimed, finally recognizing the woman before her.

"Not to worry, Maka," she reassured in a pleasant tone, frantically gathering all of her notes before Maka had the time to bend down and help. "I wasn't looking where I was going either."

"That's no excuse for my lack of attention, let me help you up." Her hand was offered to Ms. Boyd who took it kindly, hoisting herself back to her feet. Maka couldn't help but notice the surprisingly cold hand of this warm-looking woman.

"I'm just as guilty for my lack of attention, so we're absolutely even." She smiled kindly but her eyes seemed a bit glazed as they shifted nervously to the pile of papers clutched against her chest. "I best be on my way. Good day, Maka."

"Bye, Ms Boyd!"

Maka didn't know much about Rachel Boyd, the new assistant or secretary of the seventh floor. She seemed pleasant with her sugary-sweet voice and her refreshingly bright blonde hair, but they hardly crossed paths because the woman normally worked in the hectic marketing department, and not in the remote area where Maka was heading.

Not many people needed to see the big boss Shinigami-sama, so it was a little strange that the new worker would be summoned, but maybe she was running an errand for one of the higher-ups, probably for Stein since his hands were definitely full with his new play that will be opening soon. Maka waved off the matter, and concentrated on her own business: she was here to give her scouting report, which wasn't required to file in person, but she used it as an excuse to speak to the big boss about something else.

After knocking on the impressive office door that held the strange label of 'Death Room', she was quickly greeted by her superior, the eccentric Shinigami-sama with his black robes, large goofy white gloves, and signature friendly skull-mask that resembled a quirky piece of swiss cheese. Apparently his attire allowed him to better channel the essence of theatre, or so Kidd had tried to explain when she had asked why his father always dressed that way.

"Yo, yo, Maka-chan. Wasssup?"

"Good morning, Shinigami-sama," she said with all the energy she could muster. "I'm doing fine, just pulled an all-nighter, so please pardon my neglected appearance." She was referring to the bags under her eyes that she didn't bother concealing with makeup.

"Nonsense~ You're lookin' good as always; not at all neglected. So what brings you here this fine morning?" His cheerful voice made her smile, and she was thankful to have such a nice boss. Moreover, this office had been decorated in bright sky blue with childish white cloud ornaments hanging from the ceiling, and the atmosphere lightened her mood.

"I'm here to hand in my report." A sleek folder was offered to his fake-big hands. "I've organised the profiles of the candidates based on the level of their potential. So the first page is the person that I saw as a rising star, but please go through the whole document and choose whoever you like best."

"Nice, nice. Thanks for your hard work, Maka-chan! Organised as ever, just like your mother." He somehow managed to leaf through the folder with those cumbersome fingers. "Oh, and how's your script coming along?" he added casually.

Oh gosh. She really did love her boss because this was exactly the topic that she wanted to slip in, to hopefully get some advice from her most respected senior.

She therefore did not hesitate to explain her entire situation, leaving out certain unnecessary details like her banters with Soul or her sometimes unreasonable behaviour. He listened earnestly, providing adequate feedback and encouragement that made her feel a lot better; he even pointed out specific elements to look out for, so the conversation had been extremely constructive and not frivolous like what her Papa would have done. In times like these, she envied Kidd for having such an awesome father, but more importantly, she began to miss her Mama who could have given her guidance during these rough patches if she had still been in the country.

"So now, we're finally ready to work on the music, but my partner doesn't have access to a piano, and we can't afford to buy one so we're again stuck," she rambled without thinking, just spewing out her concerns.

"Why don't you use the music room here at Shibusen?" he slipped in, making her eyes widen with guilt. It wasn't her intention to ask for a favour; she was honestly just voicing her worries.

"What? But that's reserved for talents! I can't do that!" she said seriously.

"Sure you can." He turned around to rummage through his desk drawers, and threw her a key which she caught with those sharp reflexes. "There you go. Problem solved."

If there was one man that she loved on this planet, it was Shinigami-sama. But maybe he wasn't a man; he was more like a god in moments like these.

* * *

><p>His motorbike pulled into Shibusen and he hopped off completely exhausted, as if he had just trekked a million miles away from his home. And after that long drive, he still had to climb this cursed staircase that didn't seem to end, like he was walking uphill in the clouds with heaven as his final destination. When his feet made contact with the last step, he could see her rushing towards him, greeting him with her radiant smile, and he admitted that maybe there was at least one angel in this supposed sanctuary.<p>

"Hey Soul!"

He hadn't been sure how to interact with her, particularly after spending the night at her apartment, which was three days ago but he kept on replaying the memory like a broken record. He hadn't slept a wink that night, too engulfed by her scent and aroused by the fact that she was lying right fuckin' next to him. Yet deep down, he knew that he was freaking out over nothing—she had been so calm about inviting him _in her bed_, that she couldn't have thought about him _in that way_, but he still wasn't sure if the event would change their relationship.

As he looked into those piercing green eyes after their break of 72 hours, an important realisation hit him like a fierce chop to his skull: he liked Maka Albarn, and he had no idea if she would ever reciprocate the feeling, but he didn't care. His most pressing matter was the music that he was going to write for her, and he could worry about whether she liked him _after_ he got his work done. It's not like she was going to get a boyfriend any time soon—she was always so obsessed with work—but even if any suitors did try to court her, he would simply make sure that they would never get the chance.

"Do you honestly climb these stairs every day?" he asked while still catching his breath, and putting his thoughts to rest.

"Yeah, most of the time cuz it's good exercise," she answered nonchalantly while he stared at her impressed. "But there's a bank of elevators right around the corner. It's a little hidden so it doesn't ruin the building's aesthetic."

"That's good to know. Especially when we're beat tired from this script."

She chuckled in agreement, and without further ado, they headed off to the music room where they would finally tackle those scores.

* * *

><p>The battle was long, but they came out victorious for the time being. Soul still could not believe just how smooth the writing was flowing so far. That awful research still hung onto him like a traumatic event, but it did serve a purpose in the end; it helped her convey her thoughts using concrete experiences, and it greatly sped up the process of translating them into music.<p>

It also helped that he liked the play, and he could empathize with some of the characters that she had created, namely the protagonist who was coincidently also a pianist. His personality was hauntingly dark, which was a quality that Soul found very easy to work with; he would compose a measure that he would play to Maka, and her grin would reach her ears as she excitedly announced just how right it felt.

They ploughed through the draft with ease, but the polishing was surely going to kill them because Maka's standards were extremely high, with her ambition dead-set on making a masterpiece. What they currently had was good, but it was still far from perfect, so she insisted that their work had only just begun and that they could not slack off in the least.

"Hey Soul, I just realised something," she said while they were getting ready to leave after a long session in the music room. "I think you can work on the music alone."

"What?" he exclaimed, utterly confused and a bit hurt by the word 'alone'. Indeed they've been constantly working for the past two weeks, so a break was only natural, but her words implied that she was going to ditch him…

"As in, I really trust your judgement, and I know you understand the play enough to be able to work it till perfection," she hurriedly explained, causing his tension to relax. "To be honest, it's reaching that point where I can't make any comments because I don't really get it anymore… I mean, in the beginning, it was easy to get the general mood of the music, but now it's getting so refined that it all just sounds the same to me."

Right. He had forgotten that she was so musically inept, and she was probably just going along with his pace to keep him motivated, smiling even when she had no idea which measures he had altered.

"I also want to be efficient with our time," she continued as they stepped out of the room, locking the door. "The dialogue needs more work, and I'm going to have to start thinking about casting. There's also the whole technical side of the production that needs to get prepped. We're going to get even busier as the deadline approaches."

"Maka, it's no problem. I can handle the music on my own, so don't worry about it, and just concentrate on what you gotta do," he assured her while they headed towards the elevators because they were way too tired to climb down that daunting staircase.

"I'm not worried in the least," she answered with a bright smile that pinched his heart. "You're the one thing that I'm the most confident about."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he just took it coolly by sending her a smirk followed by a light chuckle.

"Oh, and I wanted to ask," she casually added while they stepped into the empty elevator that would finally lead them to freedom. "Do you want to move in?"

"Huh?" he dumbly responded, completely caught off guard by the sudden change of topic.

"The commute must be wearing you down, so I thought it'd be easier for you just to stay at my place cuz it's so much closer."

Her offer was very tempting for a variety of reasons; not only would the convenience cut down on travelling time and gas money, but he would also have the excuse of seeing Maka more often, especially when his opportunities would greatly diminish if he was going to work alone on the music from now on. However, he quickly realised that the arrangement might be counter-productive because he would never be able to fall asleep if he were to share rooms with her, since it didn't seem like she had all that much space at her place, and a lack of sleep meant no progress with work.

"But you've only got two bedrooms at your apartment," he pointed out, still sceptical of her offer.

"Well, I was thinking that I'd give you my room, and I can sleep in Blair's. She's got a huge bed, so on the nights that she _is _home, I can always just crash with her," she answered while shrugging her shoulders lightly.

In his tired state, as they exited the elevator and made their way towards his bike, her offer sounded perfect. He wouldn't spend all-nighters, utterly unable to fall asleep from her enticing presence, but he would still get to see her, and he would no longer have to drive that horrendously long distance to get to Shibusen. He'll definitely quit his part-time job at the video rental store; this music would pay off in the long run, and it's not like he cared much about the job anyways, which was definitely an added incentive.

"Okay, that's cool with me."

He would have to take back those words because the subsequent days would involve the opposite, with heat instead rushing to his face and taking over the lower half of his body. Totally _not_ cool.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

I should really update this story more often; I've been very distracted with some of the other ideas concocting in my brain. o_0 This chapter acts as a build-up for other (hopefully) awesome stuff, so please bear with it for the time being! But I hope it doesn't all crumble like a house of cards…


	6. Scene 6

**Scene VI**

_[at Shibusen]_

* * *

><p>Faint light seeped through the cracks of the blinds, allowing just enough rays for her amber eyes to scan the fine print. Her frantic fingers flicked through the various documents in the filing cabinet, searching desperately for the words that would solve her query, but they escaped her grasp when she passed the letter that was supposed to contain the label of her desire. Perhaps, someone had misplaced it and forgot to properly return it back in alphabetical order, or maybe it was her own blunder as she could have easily overlooked it while sifting too quickly. She muttered a curse under her breath, annoyed that such a simple task was taking longer than expected.<p>

Her hands dived in for a second round, but she was immediately stopped dead in her tracks, her spine flinching into a stiff rod at the distinct sound of rolling wheels on the slate-tile floor.

"Looking for this,_ Ms Rachel Boyd_?" a low voice grumbled inquisitively from across the room, a gnarled hand waving the document that she was likely searching for. The woman however stayed calmly in place, tucking away her evil glare before turning around to face the unexpected visitor.

"My goodness! You gave me quite the fright, Doctor Stein," she answered in her usual sweet voice. "Maybe you do have the document I'm looking for. Which label are you holding?"

"Kishin Asura," he stated blankly, without purposely sounding suspicious but somehow managing to produce the same effect.

"Oh my. Of course _not_," she laughed nervously, "That's certainly not what I'm looking for!"

"Oh?" He scratched his temple, deliberately taking his time pondering on his next words like oiling the screws in his brain, and thus leaving the woman hanging in anticipation. "My mistake," he lamely finished.

"Well… I can't seem to find what I'm looking for." Her mouth curved into an innocent pout, suppressing the irritation from this enigmatic man that always left her on edge. "It's not that important anyways, so I'll just be on my way."

She barely moved a few feet before his voice cut her tracks once more.

"Ah! I just remembered something, _Rachel_." The wheels of the office chair that he was sitting on screeched against the floor as he rolled his way closer to her. "How is your daughter doing?"

"Pardon me?" she politely inquired. She really could _never_ understand where this man pulled out his questions.

"Your daughter. The one you gave birth to thirty years ago, you know, the one that made you go on maternity leave, but then you just gave in your dismissal shortly afterwards… probably too busy with the child, like what happens to most mothers." He scratched his temple once more, while she clenched her nervous fist behind her back. "Might I add, you look _great_ for your age."

She really had to hold back her dagger stare, instead keeping a plastic smile firmly in place.

"My _daughter_ is doing fine. And thank you for the compliment."

"My pleasure. Oh, and you should really update your file. The address you left doesn't seem to exist anymore... that building burned down around a decade ago. It would be most appropriate to change that, as it's a breach of contract to write _false_ information."

"I wasn't aware that it hadn't been changed. I'll indeed get onto it right away." She maintained the smile and budged a few steps closer to the door, before Stein once again made her flinch with his low cryptic voice.

"And one more thing, _Rachel_."

"Yes?" she answered cautiously.

"Who are you?"

It became extremely difficult to keep that smile, even for someone as manipulative as her, but she nevertheless managed to steel her resolve and played along with his game. Her slim legs were no longer eager to leave the room, and instead strode towards his seated figure until she stood directly in front of him, gazing seductively in his lazy olive-green eyes.

"A mere assistant working for Shibusen under the marketing department," she said with confidence, placing a poised hand on his shoulder. "Divorced and single for a long time. Looking, may I add," she finished off with a flirtatious wink.

"Why are you after the Kishin?" he demanded, ignoring her other hand that placed itself on his lap.

"Oh my. Please stop mentioning the Demon God. It'll give me nightmares," she mused playfully.

"Why do you have the same handwriting as the infamous journalist, Medusa Gorgon?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"_Medusa_. I ask again, why are you after the Kishin?"

Her gaze hardened within a heartbeat.

"Geez, if you already knew, then you should have said so sooner." Her voice was still sweet, but the tone stung like snake venom. "For someone as creative as you, I think you can already guess my intentions without my input."

"I have my suspicions, but I'd like to hear what the witch has to say."

"Witch? Is that what Shibusen is calling me now? That's so mean," she whined.

"Well, you dig up facts, brew them into eloquent sentences, and concoct all these stories that aim to bring our reputation down. Of course we'd call you a witch."

"I apologize for my destructive powers. It's not really my fault that my words make the entertainment business more interesting."

"So is that why you want the Kishin? He's certainly an _interesting_ case."

"Partially. But I'm actually just like _you_, Stein." She leaned in closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Research, development, progress. Lets see what kind of new world the future will bring. You're loosing your touch by staying within the confines of Shinigami-sama. You should join me instead."

She curled her fingers around his nape, sneaking up so close to his ear that her lips brushed his lobe; he couldn't stop himself from shivering, either in fright or delight, it nearly felt synonymous.

"Think about it Stein. Art no longer bound by the arms of morality, straying into infinite vectors of possibility. You'd be able to dissect its meaning all you want, however you want. Breaking down those bodies of concepts, or maybe splicing the channels of interdisciplinary practices, whatever you desire will be at your disposal." She bit his earlobe tenderly before breathing out a last hiss. "Give into the madness."

He was left in a daze, too engrossed by the thoughts of endless dissection that he barely registered the clicking sound of her heels that faded in the distance. Maybe he was indeed loosing his touch or his grip on sanity if he could be so easily shaken by the mere words of a sly woman. But one fact remained: while that slithering tongue spoke its enticing speech, he lost his grip on that document he had been holding, as it slipped right through his fingers and into the palms of a certain snake-like journalist named Medusa Gorgon.

* * *

><p>"G-g-gorgeous," she breathed out, wiping away a small tear that formed in the corner of her mesmerized eyes. He sat silently on the piano bench, also a little winded and still dazed from the intensity of the score he had just performed. "Soul, that was too beautiful. It's absolutely perfect."<p>

If it were under any other normal circumstance like the haughty classical entourage he was once accustomed to play for, he would not let his guard down and believe such praise, but at the sight of this girl's overflowing emotion that choked her voice and rendered her eyes into shimmering gems, it became impossible to hide the wide smile that now brightened his face. She returned the action by not only flashing her own set of pearly whites, but by rushing towards him and crushing him in a tight embrace.

"Thank you so much, Soul," she whispered into his chest, nuzzling her face against his suddenly tensed muscles. "Really, you don't know just how grateful I am."

"So I take it that the music is officially complete?" He could already predict her response, but he needed the confirmation before rejoicing.

"Yes."

And at that, he soared into a blissful peace, relaxing in her embrace and soaking in every drop of this perfect moment. When was the last time that he had felt such satisfaction? It had been too long since he last successfully completed a composition, or anything that would make him feel proud, and to receive the acknowledgement from the one person that he so desperately wanted to impress, the feeling was almost too much to handle but he somehow swallowed it all without choking.

It was times like these that his impulse bit viciously, forcing his mind into an invincible state where he gained the courage to tackle any hurdle and walk out victorious. Perhaps for his buddy BlackStar, this upsurge of confidence felt entirely normal, but for Soul, it remained a rare occurrence that he needed to take advantage of whenever it graced his spirit.

Her face was still snugly pressed against his chest, so he grabbed her attention by subtly nudging forward with a slight contraction of his pectoral muscles. When she looked up as a response to the prod, his hand met her cheek, cupping the side of her jaw while he gazed intently into her expressive eyes. He was ready for the kill. It was now or never, he convinced himself as he got ready to approach those lush pink lips…

"You'll be my weapon, right?" she instead interrupted, breaking the flow of the mood.

"Weapon?" he asked casually, confused by such a strange question.

"To kill the audience. The main actor of the play."

His expression contorted into utter disgust, instantly recoiling from her touch and fumbling off the piano bench to take a stand.

"What the fuck is that about?" he snarled, unusually aggressive.

"You're perfect for the part, Soul. I knew it the first time we met, and after watching you play, I can't picture anyone that could top your perfor—

"No," he abruptly cut her off, turning his head to avoid her persuasive gaze. "This ain't what I signed up for. There's no fuckin' way I'm acting."

"Why not?" Her tone wasn't a question, but rather a harsh remark. "The demon is so similar to you, so it's practically not even going to be an act!"

"Look, there are things that I can and cannot do. And getting up on stage is one of them." He might have conceded to her demands in the past, but this time was different. What she was asking trudged on a sensitive spot that he preferred keeping to himself, and there was nothing that could convince him otherwise.

"What are you afraid of?" she tried to challenge.

"I'm not afraid."

"Then what's the problem?"

He didn't need to answer verbally since he simply responded with a cold hard stare that shivered her to the bone, crushing her determination to pry any further. Not only did it destroy her motivation, but it also dissolved the thin barrier containing all of her stress. The realisation that her perfect actor would not take the part was too much to handle, so she opened the floodgates that once held back tears of joy, to instead release her dejection through the streams that trailed down her flushed cheeks. Those red irises softened up at the sight of her sobbing, but he still kept a reasonable distance in case she would attack once more.

"Look Maka, I just don't feel comfortable being in the spotlight, but I can help out with the accompaniment and musical direction." He tried to offer the most comfort he could despite his apprehension, and it honestly pained him to see her cry, but he still was not going to let her have her way.

She wiped off some of the tears, but she couldn't stop the hiccups that overcame her chest.

"I'll search some contacts I know. We'll find a pianist that can act way better than I can." He pulled her into a hug and she surprisingly didn't push away, silently sobbing in his chest as he rubbed circles on her back. "So please stop crying."

"W-w-why can't y-you just d-d-do it?" she whispered imploringly, looking up with sad green eyes that almost broke his resolve.

"Please don't put me in the spotlight," he gently responded, meeting her gaze with an exhausted look, as if she had just opened up his past scars. "It's not me and I hate that feeling."

That last sentence awakened her. She instantly swallowed back her tears because those words made her realise just how unreasonable she was being. Soul was reserved, never seeking attention, always coolly sitting back in the sidelines and working hard in his own way behind the curtains. Sure he had a certain charisma that attracted the public, but he wasn't upfront about it and he didn't care for pretences. Soul wasn't her father, and she would have to accept that fact.

She then remembered that he must have been forced to perform before, in a past that he preferred not to even speak of, presumably because it was something that he wanted to leave behind. How could she be so insensitive and ask such a thing from him, and then prod him guiltily when he lashed out? She felt incredibly stupid for overlooking this fundamental part of his personality.

"I'm so sorry Soul. I won't ask again."


End file.
